It was almost three in the morning, and as physically exhausted as she was, Georgie was too excited to sleep. Benedict held her close in the carriage as they crossed a near-deserted London. She rested her head on his shoulder as they rattled along, her heart singing with happiness. He’d availed himself of the dry clothes the admiral had offered, found some linen to bandage his wound, and now they huddled together under a thick woolen cloak.
When they arrived at the Tricorn, it was to find Mickey the doorman still awake, despite the ungodly hour.
“Alex and Seb made it back all right?” Benedict asked him quietly.
“Aye, sir. And that scamp Jem Barnes is dossing down in the front room. Seb said you might’ve been winged in the arm?” He shot Benedict a concerned glance.
“It’s nothing serious, Mickey. No need to summon the sawbones just yet.”
The manservant gave a relieved grunt. “Right. I’ve kept the fire going in the kitchen. I’ll bring you up a pitcher of warm water in a minute.”
Benedict murmured his thanks and ushered Georgie up the stairs. As soon as they entered the apartment, she swung around and adopted a brisk, no-nonsense tone. “Let’s clean off that wound, shall we? I don’t want you to catch a fever and die, Wylde. Not now you’ve just started to be sensible. Take off your shirt.”
His smile was thoroughly depraved. “I don’t think I will ever tire of hearing those words come out of your mouth, Mrs. Wylde.”
Without even giving her time to brace herself, he stripped off his shirt and stood there in just a pair of buff breeches and his top boots. Her mouth went dry and her insides knotted. The man really did have the most splendid physique. Mickey’s arrival with a jug of hot water, clean linen bandages, and a bottle of brandy, prevented her from leaping upon her husband and ravishing him on the spot.
“Thought you might need these,” the servant rumbled. “’Night.” He closed the door quietly behind him.
Benedict took a swig from the bottle and handed it to her. “Do your worst, then, woman.”
She moistened a handkerchief liberally with the brandy.
“Easy!” he protested. “That’s France’s best Armagnac you have there.”
She slanted him a prim look. “Imported foreign spirits are illegal in this country, Mr. Wylde.”
He winked. “I may have stumbled across a few barrels of unclaimed contraband while infiltrating that smuggling gang.” He washed the wound, turning the water in the bowl pink, then hissed in through his teeth as she pressed the liquor-soaked pad to his flesh. Georgie winced in sympathy. It must sting like the devil.
He looked down as she tied a clean bandage around the wound. “Kiss me. I need distraction from the pain.”
She was more than happy to oblige. The nearness of him, the scent of all that smooth, bronzed skin was just too tempting.
He tasted of brandy and heat. His tongue slid against hers in a steady, sinuous rhythm she felt in her breasts and her stomach, between her legs. She smoothed her hands over the muscled expanse of his shoulders, loving the feel of him, the power, but pulled back when her fingers ran over the puckered patch of scar tissue just above his clavicle.
“I took a bullet at Salamanca,” he said softly. “French sniper. I was lucky; it came right out the back.” He guided her hand behind him, and she felt a corresponding ridge where the bullet had exited his body. “Didn’t even touch the bone.”
Georgie shuddered, and her stomach pitched weightlessly. The scar was so close to the throbbing pulse of his neck. It could so easily have been fatal. She bent and kissed the damaged skin, and his long body shivered in reaction. His hands went to the tie at the front of her boyish shirt and he pulled on the strings. It opened in a deep V, and she raised her arms to help him as he lifted it over her head and threw it aside.
She understood this time, knew exactly where it would lead. And she welcomed it. She wanted it all—the darkness, the passion, the heat. Him.
Her linen shift was tucked into her breeches and her heart thudded against her ribs as he tugged her forward by the waistband. The back of his hand slipped against her stomach as he undid the buttons at the fall.
“These damn things have been driving me mad all night,” he growled.
She toed off her boots and stockings, removed the breeches and her shift, and heard him draw in a deep breath when she stood naked in front of him. The look in his eyes made heat curl low in her belly.
He caught her and kissed her, holding nothing back, and she felt as if she’d been burned, scalded by his kiss, his strong body, and his big hands. He opened his mouth against her, tasting the corner of her lips with his tongue and then plunging deep inside. She threaded her hands through his hair and felt his fingers encircle her wrists. He didn’t push her away; instead, he tightened his grip and held her in place, a thrilling, willing bondage.
Georgie quivered all the way to her bones. Lust dragged her down like a whirlpool, an undertow impossible to resist. She didn’t even want to come up for air. She lost herself in him, inhaled his scent, drew him into her lungs, into her heart.
With staggering steps, they made it to the bedroom. She knelt before him as he sat on the edge of the bed and helped him remove his wet boots. He made quick work of his breeches and lay back, gloriously naked, and Georgie couldn’t contain a breathless laugh of triumph. Hers.
She put her knee on the bed and prowled up his body, and for a while he was content to let her explore. She trailed her hand down, over the marvelous bumps and ridges of his chest and abdomen, down to the intriguing line of hair that started at his belly button and speared, like a wicked arrow, straight to his thoroughly aroused shaft.
Georgie swallowed, suddenly overcome by nerves. She hadn’t seen this part of him the last time.
His eyes glowed. “Touch me.”
She’d wanted to do this ever since she’d felt him through his breeches in the submarine. Gently, she wrapped her hand around him and gasped as he pulsed under her palm. He was shockingly warm, his skin soft with a layer of rigid muscle beneath. She stroked experimentally, and he groaned and arched up into her hand. “Do you like this?” she teased.
“Yes!”
“I love this sleepy, sulky look you get,” she said. “It must be whenever you’re thinking of this. It makes me all hot and muddled.”
She bent and put her mouth on him. He hissed a breath between his teeth, as he’d done when she’d touched his wound with the brandy, but feminine instinct told her this was in pleasure, not pain. She flicked her tongue. Her senses reeled at the incredible feel of him, his taste. He filled her senses. There was only him, only delight.
“That’s enough,” Benedict groaned. “No doubt a courtly swain would let you have your wicked way with him all night, but a scoundrel like myself can only take so much.” In a lightning move, he reversed their positions so she lay beneath him on the bed. He sent her an insolent pirate’s leer, once again her beloved prisoner from Newgate. “Now, I have you in my clutches, Mrs. Wylde.” He curled her hair around his fist and dragged it to his nose. “I know you, wife. I know your scent. The way you move. You’re mine.”
Georgie shivered.
“Let’s see how much torture you can stand.” He stroked her, from her throat, down the center of her body between her breasts, and back up. “I love your body’s reaction to me. Your skin flushes, your nipples tighten to little peaks.” He brushed his fingers over them to underscore his point, and Georgie gasped at the sensation. Jolts of lightning shot through her. He chuckled. “Your breath is coming in pants, Mrs. Wylde. Should I infer that you like this?”
Georgie arched up into his touch, and he took pity on her and cupped her breasts. She moaned. His hands molded to the contours of her skin like water, a perfect fit. He leaned over and paused with his mouth suspended over her, one taut peak inches from his mouth. At the last moment he made a detour and traced the soft underside curve of her breast with his tongue instead.
“I surrender!” Georgie panted. “You win. Stop teasing.”
His chuckle vibrated against her skin. She caught his hair and pulled him up to her breast, and he captured one nipple in his mouth. She let out a ragged sigh.
“I suspect you like this too,” he whispered, and his hand slid down her stomach and over the springy hair below. He stroked between her legs, found the telltale slippery wetness, and groaned. “I want to be inside you.”
“Yes!” Georgie gasped. “Now.”
“Now,” he echoed hoarsely.
He lowered himself over her, and she felt his hand at her inner thigh, guiding himself to her. He took her mouth at the same moment he slid into her, one sure, deep thrust, and he caught her soft moan of pleasure on his tongue. It was a shock, a revelation, a miraculous filling and stretching. He stilled, fully inside her, and looked deep into her eyes. Georgie felt the connection right down to her soul.
He was buried deep, hard and hot. And then he started to move, and she arched her back and caught the rhythm. Soon, she was trembling, lost in that dark, wicked place where there were no words, only sensations. He increased the pace, deeper, harder, until she was straining for more, gasping his name. She hovered on the peak of agony for what seemed like forever, and then she hurtled over the edge, and it was like Guy Fawkes and his gunpowder again—only this was her own personal detonation. Blistering. Earth-shattering. All-consuming.
He let out a soul-deep groan, and his entire body went rigid over hers. Instead of pulling out of her, she felt him pulsing deep within her in his own blissful release. He collapsed onto her chest, then rolled them both to the side and lay breathing hard, great gusts of his chest, as her own heart hammered and pleasure liquefied her limbs.
“Say it again,” she panted. “What you said at Woolwich.”
He stroked her hair away from her temple. “What? That I love you? Yes.” He pressed a kiss to the end of her nose. “My love. My life. Stay with me. Always.”
“Always,” she breathed.